“I don’t know. You said she had silver hair?”

“Her hair was a silvery blonde.”

“I can’t think of any of the gods that resembles her, but maybe she was one of the Primals Nyktos spoke of.”

“Maybe,” I murmured.

We’d also spent the time using our mouths and tongues to speak words of the flesh. I enjoyed each thoroughly and equally.

But Casteel didn’t feel as if the trip was a waste. While I found Nyktos’s parting words to be generally unhelpful at the end of the day, Casteel took them to mean that I would one day rule both Solis and Atlantia. But those words made me think of what the Duchess had claimed.

That Queen Ileana was my grandmother. That was highly impossible, but it was the only way I would have a true claim to the throne—succession instead of conquering. Or maybe Nyktos meant that we would take the Blood Crown that way? I didn’t know, and the pressure to convince the Blood Crown in our upcoming meeting was even greater. We couldn’t let this become a war including these Revenants. I had a horrible feeling there would only be one way to stop this. Maybe that was what Nyktos had meant. That I had the power in me to stop this.

Icy fingers drifted across the nape of my neck. I’d heard those words before, spoken by the little girl who’d been so grievously wounded, but when she’d spoken them, they had struck a chord of familiarity in me. Over the last several days, I’d tried to remember, but they were like a dream you tried to retain hours after waking.

Passing the entrances to the busy kitchens, I rounded the bend in the hall and nearly walked right into Lord Gregori. I took a startled step back. The dark-haired Atlantian wasn’t alone.

“My apologies.” A slight frown appeared as he noted the absence of my crown.

It did not go unnoticed that he didn’t acknowledge my title. Neither had Lord Ambrose when I passed him the other day in the halls as I’d left to explore the grounds with Vonetta. “It is I who should apologize. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.” My gaze darted to the young woman behind him. She appeared to be around my age, but I knew immediately she was a wolven, so she could be dozens or even hundreds of years older than me.

The pale, wintery eyes were a striking contrast to the golden hue of her skin, and the warm blonde hair that fell over her shoulders in loose waves. Her features were a mix of traits you would’ve found on different people. Her eyes were wideset and yet hooded, softening the sharp angles of her cheeks and the blade of her nose. Her brows were thick and several shades darker than her hair. Her mouth was small, but her lips were full. She was short, several inches shorter than me, but the cut of her tunic showed off the curves of her breasts and the lushness of her hips that would’ve seemed at odds with someone of her stature. Nothing about her made sense, and yet everything about her lined up so imperfectly that any artist would likely be driven to commit her image to canvas with charcoal or oil. She was perhaps the most uniquely beautiful person I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t stop staring at her.